


Look Out Baby 'Cause Here I Come

by wordslinging



Series: Take Care of Business For Me [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Multi, Pre-Threesome, Sharing Clothes, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 11:08:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4604439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordslinging/pseuds/wordslinging
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a kink meme prompt: "Gaby requisitions one of Illya's sweaters. She ends up wearing it and nothing else."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look Out Baby 'Cause Here I Come

**Author's Note:**

> I'm glad I'm not the only one who emerged from this movie with a mighty need for spy threesomes. Which I mostly ended up just laying the groundwork for here, but oh well.

"I don't know why you're glaring at me like that," Napoleon says airily. " _I_ didn't push you into the canal."

"If you'd been where you were supposed to be, I wouldn't have had to try and stop him from running all by myself," Gaby points out. Which is true, but she'd probably be glaring at him even if it wasn't, because he's perfectly dry in a wool suit and she's dripping wet in a flimsy evening gown, her wrap somewhere floating down the canal. She folds her arms across her chest, shivering in the night air. "I'm _freezing_."

Illya jogs up to them at that moment, an unconscious man slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "I believe you misplaced this," he says, and then raises one eyebrow slightly when he notices Gaby's condition.

"It's Solo's fault," Gaby says before Napoleon can say anything.

Illya bends down and drops their target (a local forgery artist who Gaby was hoping to get information from _without_ violence) on the pavement. He pulls his sweater over his head and holds it out to her, with a pointed look at Napoleon that Gaby ignores--if they want to get in a pissing contest over chivalry, let them. The sweater's a thick cable-knit, the wool surprisingly soft, and when she puts it on it falls to her knees, the sleeves swallowing her hands.

"Thank you," she says to Illya, who gives her nod and a slight smile, then nudges the unconscious forger with his toe.

"What do we do with him now?" he asks.

Napoleon shrugs. "Wake him up and see if you being large and Russian at him is enough to make him feel a little more cooperative?"

Each of them bends to grab an arm and get the man propped up against the nearest wall, and Gaby stands back and lets them go to work, scrunching her face down into the collar of the sweater and the smell of Illya's cologne.

***

Back at the hotel, Napoleon makes some calls to see if the forger's information gets them where they need to be. Gaby goes straight into the bathroom of their suite--the two of them are the fake couple this time, Illya on his own in a room down the hall--and into a hot shower.

It's only as she steps out and wraps a towel around herself that she realizes she didn't bring a change of clothes in with her. There's no bathrobe and her dress is a sodden heap on the floor, but she did drape Illya's sweater over the radiator so she wouldn't have to give it back to him damp.

When she steps out of the bathroom, wearing only the sweater and rubbing her hair with a towel, Napoleon's still on the phone in the bedroom and Illya's fixing drinks at the bar. He looks up as the bathroom door opens, and Gaby doesn't miss the way his eyes darken slightly and his hand tightens on the neck of the bottle he's holding.

"Hope you don't mind if I hold onto this a little longer," she says, dropping the towel carelessly on the floor and walking toward him. 

Illya tracks her every move, a low, simmering heat in his eyes that could either be lust or him thinking about how much he wants something to punch right now. Gaby hopes it's more the former, although Illya's probably thinking at least a little about punching something at any given time. "As long as you're comfortable," he says, holding out a drink.

Gaby takes the glass and swirls it around, tallying things up in her head. Three almost-kisses in Rome, a month of not talking about it after they learned they'd be working together regularly, at least ten times when Illya's hands or eyes lingered a little too long before he caught himself, and endless not-at-all-subtle quips and significant looks from Solo directed at one of both of them.

"It's a nice sweater," she tells him, and takes a sip without breaking eye contact. The Scotch is good, of course. Waverly wouldn't have them booked into a hotel with anything less.

"It looks good on you," Illya replies, voice low.

Footsteps from the bedroom, then Napoleon's voice. "Well, I've got a meeting set up tomorrow afternoon with our friend's black market contact. Doesn't seem to be much to do now but settle in for the night--you staying for dinner, peril?"

"If I'm invited," Illya replies, still not looking away from Gaby.

"Why not?" She tosses back the rest of the Scotch and looks over at Napoleon, who's watching the two of them with unconcealed curiosity. "Get room service on the phone, why don't you, Solo? I'm starving."

He smirks, and not for the first time, Gaby finds herself annoyed by how handsome he is. "Well, let's see if we can't take care of that."

***

Gaby has no excuse for not grabbing a change of clothes from her suitcase, or at least putting something on under the sweater. She can blame it on Solo's smirk or the way Illya keeps looking at her, but the real culprit is her own need to make Illya drop the stoic KGB act and let out what they all know is underneath.

She's not sure what Napoleon's angle here is. Maybe he wants them both as much as Gaby suspects he does, or maybe he just doesn't know how not to flirt with people. She doesn't think he'll make it it too hard for her to find out.

As for Illya, she knows she can get under his skin without too much work.

"I have a problem," she declares, flopping back against Illya's arm where it's stretched across the back of the sofa. The sweater rides up an inch or so on her thighs, still covering as much as some of her dresses do. In response to Illya's questioning glance, she holds up her glass, tilted slightly to display its emptiness.

"I fixed last round," Illya says, turning an expectant look on Napoleon.

Napoleon gathers up their empty glasses and heads to the bar, and Gaby makes herself comfortable, nestling into Illya's side and glancing up to find his eyes on her.

"What are you doing, little girl?" he asks quietly. He puts one hand on her knee, gently--he always touches her gently, like he's afraid he's going to break her. He should know better by now. "What is this?"

Gaby shifts closer, bringing their faces closer together and pushing his hand a bit further up her leg in the process. "What do you want it to be?"

He lifts his other hand from the back of the sofa and brushes her hair back from her face, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone. "You do like to play dangerous games, don't you?"

Gaby tilts her face against his hand, lowering her eyelids and focusing on his mouth. "Good thing that's the kind we're best at."

Just when she's made up her mind that if he doesn't close the distance between them, she will, Illya leans forward and kisses her firmly. 

His mouth is strong and a little clumsy, as though it's been some time since he kissed anyone. Gaby brings her hand up to the side of his face, changing the angle a little. One of Illya's hands moves to cup the back of her head, his other sliding up her leg until his fingers are under the hem of the sweater.

Napoleon clears his throat and Illya breaks the kiss to look over at him. He doesn't take his hands off Gaby, who follows suit. Napoleon sets the drinks he fixed on the coffee table and stands back to look at them, hip cocked slightly.

"So I figure I have three options here," he says. "I can excuse myself for a while, ask if I can join you, or just make myself comfortable and watch. Any preferences?"

"I'm easy," Gaby says, because Solo doesn't have a monopoly on unsubtle double-entendres. "Illya?"

Illya looks between the two of them and swallows hard, clearly uncertain. "I am...new to this sort of thing," he says after a moment. "But. You needn't leave on my account, cowboy."

Napoleon settles into the armchair across from the sofa, reaching for one of the drinks on the table. "Then I'll go with watching for now," he says, toasting them. "You two look pretty cozy over there."

Gaby keeps looking at Napoleon as she tilts her head down, kissing the underside of Illya's jaw. His breath catches, so she does it again, further down on his neck this time.

As if in retaliation or encouragement, Illya slides his hand further up her thigh. Gaby hums a little and shifts closer, until she's half in his lap.

"You should kiss her again, peril," Napoleon says from the chair.

"If I want your advice, cowboy, I'll ask for it," Illya returns, but he also tilts his head down to catch Gaby's mouth with his. He rubs her leg and runs his other hand down her back until he's palming her ass. He hitches her forward and she slides the rest of the way into his lap, twining her arms around his neck and deepening the kiss as she does so.

Gaby hears a faint clink of metal and glances over to see Napoleon undoing his belt buckle. She can feel Illya's cock hard against her leg, and she's incredibly turned on herself; she squeezes her thighs together, setting off a little burst of heat low in her stomach, and moans into Illya's mouth.

Illya tips his forehead against hers, fierce blue eyes darting up to meet hers through his eyelashes. His expression is customarily serious, but a little softer around the edges than usual. Very slowly and deliberately, he moves his hand around to her inner thigh and up.

Gaby's eyes flutter closed as Illya slides two fingers into her, a helpless noise of pleasure rising in her throat. He's careful, precise, strong, callused fingers finding her clit and rubbing it slow and steady. She presses herself even closer against him, bearing down against his hand. He kisses the side of her neck and she runs her fingers up into his hair, darting a glance over the top of his head to where Napoleon's watching them with half-lidded eyes and slightly parted lips.

Illya's teeth scrape Gaby's throat and his hand speeds up, stroking faster and harder. Gaby feels herself tensing up, and for just a moment it's too much, too intense, too good, she fists her hand in his hair and sighs his name as she comes.

Illya strokes her through it, his other arm slung around her back, holding her close until she stops shuddering. Gaby leans against him, and he kisses the top of her head and murmurs something low and tender in Russian.

"What does that mean?" she asks, smoothing down his hair and looking up to see his smile.

Illya slips his hand out from between her legs and tugs at the hem of the sweater. "It means I like you in this."

Gaby smiles and brings one hand down to his lap, palming his cock through his trousers. "I like that you like it," she says as Illya draws in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering closed. 

"I think...we're all on the same page there…" Napoleon says, breathing labored and hand still moving in his trousers. 

"Enjoy the show, Solo?" Gaby asks, grinning at both him and the noise Illya makes when she presses down. 

"Top-- _ah_ \--" Napoleon's whole body stiffens for a moment, and then he slumps back in his chair, eyes closed, face blissful. "Top marks for both of you."

Illya takes Gaby's hand, lifting it from his lap, but before she can protest he kisses it, then leans in to kiss her lips, and then gathers her easily in his arms. Gaby grabs him around the neck as he stands, but it's just a reflex--she knows he won't let her drop. 

"Bedroom," Illya says simply, carrying her in that direction. "You coming, cowboy?"

Napoleon's still sprawled bonelessly in the armchair, but he waves a hand. "Right behind you."


End file.
